


the memories of a friend

by scumfuck



Category: IT 2017
Genre: Angst, Eddie Kaspbrak - Freeform, Homophobic Slurs, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Poems, Reddie, Richie Tozier - Freeform, please do not read if you are sensitive to sexual assault and abuse, this has violence in it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 03:46:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14416995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scumfuck/pseuds/scumfuck





	the memories of a friend

Eddie sees blue. Bright blue. Chlorine blue. There is a hand threaded in his hair that is pushing him into this blue, and for a moment Eddie cannot see anything, really; or feel anything or do anything.

 

Eddie is thirteen and he knows this boy is trying to kill him. Drown him. He knows he deserves it, too, because he does.

 

He knows very well that he is not allowed to like another boy. He could recite it like the ten verses from the Bible. Just like he knows he shouldn't have sex before marriage and he knows he shouldn't say God's name in vain. It is etched into his brain like the equation they learned in math class that year.

 

Eddie believes he's ready to die then, in that swimming pool, because he looked at the blond boy a little longer than anyone else would. Or maybe because he bought the blond boy a piece of Bazooka, or maybe he listened closely to the blond boy's laugh, or something-

 

But it doesn't matter, because the boy catches  on. The boy hates him.

 

He hates Eddie, even though Eddie knew a lot about tough looking cars from the sixties and learned how to ride a dirt bike. Even though Eddie let him play the game where you breathe super hard and someone pulls on your diaphragm from behind and you pass out for a couple seconds. Even though Eddie asked his mom for a BB-gun for his birthday so he could show the blond boy he was cool.

 

Eddie knows it's his fault anyway, of course. He knows a boy who likes another boy is dead meat. His head would be chopped off like the fish he saw at the butcher on the walk home from school everyday.

 

A boy who likes another boy is dead meat, unless of course, he kept his stupid mouth shut- or maybe his eyes shut - but Eddie did not do that.

 

No, not one bit.

 

 

2

 

High school is a hellhole and Eddie is aware of it, he knew of it once he stepped into the big oak doors. He wished that he could have gone to a fancy private school on the West side, perhaps the one only a train ride away, but he understood that money was tight and his knowledge was not acute enough to get in.

 

He remembers a poem as he's sitting in the basement of a stoner's house. Their parents aren't home, and the room is foggy. It leaves Eddie to do nothing but think. He supposes maybe that's for the better, because he'd much rather think than stare at a curly-haired boy make out with a blond girl who looked a smidge like Twiggy.

 

He drinks from a green beer bottle and knows he shouldn't, because he's underage. And underage alcohol consumption was not good, it was never good, and he knew that. He knew very well, from every health class that spoke of reproduction and the female anatomy and the bad things that come from smoking cigarettes.

 

Cigarettes or marijuana? He thinks to himself. Marijuana or beer?

 

He does not ponder for long, because he taste on his tongue is bitter, and he needs to wash it out. So he moves through thick smoke to a grody bathroom with tiles chipping off the walls. It's an ugly green color.

 

Almost as green as his face, which does not look well, but it may be he quality of the mirror.

 

"Faggot," he breathes, and he can feel it under his skin, prickling right underneath the freckles on his cheek that he picked at during English. It rolls over his tongue disgustingly, like a cuss. He bites on his lip before repeating. "Faggot."

 

He nearly jumps out of his skin when the curly haired boy hops out of the shower, right behind the curtain, clad in only his boxers. Eddie remembers his face, but not his name, but it doesn't matter because he has lipstick stains around his mouth. The lipstick stains Eddie wouldn't ever have, not in a million years, not even if he tried to.

 

Eddie says nothing.

 

He looks. Shames himself for looking. And leaves the party.

 

3

 

Eddie does not know who he is, but he thinks this is what he's supposed to feel.

 

Sex is meaningless, he thinks, as he's being grabbed at ruthlessly. The man on top of him has a sharp jawline. He's a beefier Johnny Depp. Eddie guesses that's why he kissed him. But kissing turns to biting, and Eddie loses his virginity to a man he doesn't know the name of.

 

But it doesn't matter because it's sex. It's just sex.

 

The man does not wear the rubbers they give out in health class.

 

The man does not let him sleep in his bed until morning.

 

The man kicks him out, half-clothed and unfulfilled.

 

Eddie cries in the hallway of an apartment building. He doesn't know what street he's on.

 

He takes he palms of his hands and wipes his tears on his neck and the backs of his ears and whispers to himself. "Now it's sweat." He picks up his pants from around his ankles. "Now it's sweat. It's sweat now."

 

4

 

It's the kind of feeling he gets whenever he comes back home, but it's not necessarily happy. It's a nostalgic feeling. He does not smile at his mother even though she asks him to.

 

He sees the curly haired boy outside of a flower shop on his way to drop off an overdue library book.

 

It's the Hey, how are you? and the Good to see you! that makes Eddie blush and look away. He hates himself for going red like the roses in the man's hand. He jingles change in the pockets of his cargo shorts and tries to make small talk.

 

Ends up smiling up at him and saying "See you around," before continuing on his way, gripping the cover of Catcher in the Rye until his knuckles go white. 

 

He doesn't know if this is his own mind messing with him, or reality, but Eddie feels eyes on the back of his head.

 

For a split second, Eddie wishes the roses picked out were for him. He knows they would

never

ever

be.

But it's only a wish.

 

5

A man Eddie wishes he was in love with hits him.

 

Not for the first time, no, that was last weekend. This was the second time. And the third. Fourth.

 

Blow after blow and Eddie takes it like the dunking in the swimming pool, because he deserves it, and he knows very well he does.

 

"Don't cry," the man says. It's a silent threat. Don't cry or I'll hit harder.

 

Eddie knows he deserves the hits and he knows that the hits are giving the man pleasure. That man is his boyfriend, he thinks, boyfriends are supposed to do this. Just like sex is supposed to be meaningless.

 

Eddie takes the last hit without shedding a tear. He knows he'll have to cover up the bruises, the unwanted hickies, the blood stains around his nose, for work tomorrow.

 

He knows very well.

 

6

 

Eddie sees a green-eyed redheaded boy in a supermarket.

 

He has a pin on his jeans and a David Bowie t-shirt on. Eddie glances and looks away. He does not stare because he has a boyfriend. He is not allowed to stare. Not even if people stare at him.

 

The boy in line next to him, he shrinks, recoils, as if he's being hit by men. Or dunked underwater. Or grabbed by people he does not know.

 

Eddie glances and looks away. It is not his problem because "We all go through the same old shit, Eddie," and "Honey, stop staring."

 

It has nothing to do with Eddie.

 

 

7

 

"It's gonna be okay," isn't reassuring, not even if cooed by a curly haired boy in his right ear. Eddie doesn't know how he got here at all, really. Maybe it was fate.

 

Richie, his name is. Eddie remembered through a yearbook left on his first home's dresser. Richie Tozier.

 

Eddie is bruised everywhere and he knows he deserves it but Richie does not. He does not know the things Eddie has seen or done. And Eddie knows why he doesn't ask: because it is simply none of his business.

 

Since when, Eddie thinks, since when did I last get hugged?

 

The arms curl around him and hold him tight in place. Eddie cannot wipe the tears from his eyes.

But he can feel the lips on his own.

 

And when he pulls back, they are glistening with spit he knows very well is his own. It makes Eddie cry even more.

 

He wishes for a moment that he could pin the curly- He wishes he could pin Richie down and do him so terribly dirty. He wishes he could show him the things men have done to himself. The dunking, the forcing, the drinking, the biting, the hitting...

 

He does not.

 

He gets his hair brushed back by rough-skinned, knobbly (but gentle. Surprisingly gentle.) fingers. There is another kiss pressed, but now it is on the corner of Eddie's lips. He can feel it.

 

And when he says the name it rolls off of his tongue beautifully, like a poem. "Richie."

 

"Yes?"

 

Eddie says nothing and everything. And Richie kisses him. Not like the girl at the party in 10th grade. No, because there is no smeared lipstick afterwards.

 

Only a promise is left on Eddie's lips. It's a promise,

 

Eddie knows, very well,

 

will last forever.


End file.
